


This Can't Be How Our Story Ends (It Was You and Me Against the World)

by dilapidatedcorvid



Category: The Locked Tomb Trilogy | Gideon the Ninth Series - Tamsyn Muir
Genre: Canonical Character Death, Coping Mechanisms, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, F/F, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-24
Updated: 2020-03-24
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:42:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,972
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23290405
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dilapidatedcorvid/pseuds/dilapidatedcorvid
Summary: This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.Harrow sits on her bed on the Undying Emperor’s vessel and stares into the mirror facing her. She’s tired. But despite having had every intention of going to bed, she can’t. She just can’t.Because beside her in the reflection of the mirror is Gideon Nav. But not Gideon Nav, because Gideon isn’t a disembodied head that floats in the air, and Gideon Nav certainly would not be still wearing her poorly applied face paint if she had a choice, and Gideon Nav is d-. Gideon Nav is dead.
Relationships: Gideon Nav/Harrowhark Nonagesimus
Comments: 17
Kudos: 48





	This Can't Be How Our Story Ends (It Was You and Me Against the World)

This is stupid. This is so, so stupid.

Harrow sits on her bed on the Undying Emperor’s vessel and stares into the mirror facing her. She’s tired. Bone tired (haha, Griddle would have made that joke and somehow it’s funnier now). She doesn’t think she’ll ever hold that stupid two-hander sword right. It’s heavy as shit and it’s unwieldy. Her muscles hurt and her heart hurts more. But despite having had every intention of going to bed, she is unwilling to take off her face paint, and if she doesn’t take off the talc, she’ll never be able to fall asleep. But she can’t. She just can’t.

Because beside her in the reflection of the mirror is Gideon Nav. But not Gideon Nav, because Gideon isn’t a disembodied head that floats in the air, and Gideon Nav certainly would not be still wearing her poorly applied face paint if she had a choice, and Gideon Nav is d-. Gideon Nav is dead.

So no, the head floating in the reflection is not Gideon Nav, but it’s damn close. Down to the devil-may-care smirk, bedhead that somehow looks perfectly I-looked-out-Caanan-House’s-balcony-and-the-wind-touseled-it-impeccably mussed, and the sunglasses. The stupid _fucking_ glasses.

Gideon had said something to her when she was fighting the Cytherea. No, when _they_ were fighting the Cytherea. Something about this being some hallucination her mind was creating to deal with trauma and mourn or some bullshit. Harrow doesn’t mourn. It’s stupid, damn it. She didn’t mourn her parents when she watched them walk off the chairs to their death by scratchy rope, she didn’t mourn Magnus or Abigail, or Isaac or Jeannemary, or Protesilaus, but she supposes that she gets a pass on that one – he was dead long before he arrived at the First House. But the point still stands. Harrowhark Nonagesimus does not mourn. At least not publicly. And since Gideon’s- no, Not-Gideon’s floating head came uninvited into her mind in her own private quarters, it’s not private anymore.

She has no words. Just stares at the floating head that’s moving about in the same way Gideon could never stand still, even when Aiglamene does her damndest to whip the brute into Cavalier into shape. Not that she wasn’t in shape, just- damn it, Nonagesimus.

She grimaces at the sloppy paint job on the drifting head and sighs. It’s not that she doesn’t want Gideon here. She does. She _desperately_ wants her Cavalier here. First to scream at for dying, shake her to get her point across that thick fucking skull, and then to hug and hold and sob into her chest and to be held in perpetually warm arms. And then maybe she’d yank Gideon’s stupid big head down and kiss her stupid lips, and then she’d probably fuck something up the moment that’s done, so Harrow shoves that thought far, far away. It’s not that she doesn’t want Gideon here. She wasn’t lying when she said that she couldn’t conceive of a world where Gideon Nav wasn’t a fucking thorn in her side that was also growing increasingly kissable. It’s that this floating head could not _possibly_ be Gideon. Just a recreation. A perfect one, but a cruel trick nonetheless.

And it’s also certainly not that she doesn’t have words for Gideon. It’s been half a week since… since Cytherea the First. Since _she_ became Harrowhark the First. She’s laid in bed and thought of everything she could ever conceive of saying to her Cavalier – no, her late Cavalier, and she’s scratched fragments of it on flimsy too, only to hastily bunch it up and bin it all. No point in letting Tridentarius know what’s going on in her head. Speaking of the devil, Tridentarius is going to rip into her come morning if she hears Harrow talking to herself. Whatever. She bets Ianthe hasn’t heard or seen a thing from Naberius, given his grisly and unwilling demise at her hand. Not that Harrow thinks Ianthe would be any more bearable with an extra pretentious voice in her head. She grimaces. Not-Gideon is now pulling faces into the mirror, so base and childish and endearing- wait. Fuck.

“Fine.” She growls.

Even if only in her imagination, Gideon Nav still manages to piss Harrowhark right the fuck off. What talent. She’d preen if she heard it now, Harrow can just see it. Crossing her stupid buff arms over her chest, all puffed out like a bird. Not the dilapidated few that occasionally drop from the skies to die back in the Ninth House. No, something more majestic. Harrow wouldn’t know. She hasn’t seen them yet. But soon. Because of Gideon Nav, possibly the stupidest Cavalier the Ninth ever produced. And also the best. Fuck Matthias Nonius, the Ninth House is going to await the second coming of Gideon Nav now if Harrow had anything to say about it. And then again if Harrow’s word alone could change everything, Gideon would still be here. Which brings her back to the skull.

“You have my attention, Not-Griddle. What in Sister Lachrimorta’s shrivelled name are you doing here?”

“I thought you’d be more grateful to see my loser face.” Gideon snarks, still that kind of raspy, kind of gravelly voice that echoes in Harrow’s head at night, the crack in her voice when she yelled her last words. Lungs still full of bone dust.

Gods, Harrow misses her.

She refuses to take her eyes off of the mirror but still does her best to roll them.

“You don’t miss me? Damn, that’s cold, even for you, Nonagesimus. I _died_ for you, a ‘hello’ would be nice.” Not-Gideon chirps. “I had to work pretty hard to get close enough to your surface thoughts to actually get to you. You have _no_ idea how many theorems I had to struggle through to get here, especially without arms. Oh wait, well, I guess you’d know, you are the one who put them in your big brain. Always figured your head was _way_ too small to fit that big brain of yours.”

God, did Gideon say this much when she was alive too? “I don’t know that you’re really Gideon. Real Gideon would have apparated with the rest of her body, she’s too obsessed with her damn arms.”

The disembodied head tilts back and laughs. “Touché. But does it matter if I’m real? I’m here, aren’t I?”

“You could be Ianthe’s magic. I don’t know how she’d do it, but far be it from me to suggest that the creep wouldn’t try something like this to get an upper hand.”

Not-Gideon nods. “Always intelligent as always. But can she replicate this? Wait, hold my glasses.”

Harrow turns to grab them off of Not-Gideon’s face, but there’s nothing there. She turns back to the mirror and Not-Gideon has managed to shrug without shoulders.

“’s fine, I’m sure we’ll find a way to conjure another pair.” She just throws her head forward, shaking the glasses off and her hair moves perfectly, soft and pillowy even in Harrow’s head. When she looks up again, Harrow can see her eyes, honey and dying embers and fresh tea. She grins, catching Harrow’s eye in the mirror. “Well? Can she?”

Harrow shakes her head.

Not-Gideon laughs and somehow sunglasses miraculously apparate on her face again. “Oh fuck, that’s cool.”

“Then you’re a figment of my imagination.” Harrow concludes, “Still not real.”

Not-Gideon smiles, again with that stupid one-sided lip curl. “Does it matter if I’m real or just in your head? I mean, I’m pretty sure that after this week, nothing constitutes ‘normal’ anymore, sugarlips.”

Harrow huffs a smile and shakes her head.

“Come on, my penumbral lady night boss. What would you say to your beloved Griddle if she was here? If you were certain she was real?”

“I-,” Harrow pauses and frowns at the skull. “That’s a cop-out.”

Not-Gideon grins. “If I’m real, then I know. If not, what’s the harm? You comfort yourself and you can finally go to bed? I know you’re tired. I can feel your body too, you know?”

Harrow hates that Not-Gideon has eyebrows and can still wiggle them. Still, she tucks her knees closer to her chest and she just looks at the head in the mirror. It’s perfect. It’s Gideon. It’s fucking Griddle. Come back to life in her own damn head.

“I’d tell her that-,” Her voice cracks and she tapers off into silence, hot tears welling in the corners of her eyes. Damn it.

Gideon tilts her head slightly, encouraging her.

“I’d tell her that I miss her.” Harrow does her damndest to keep her voice even, but it’s hard. It’s so hard when Griddle’s stupid mirrored glasses are perched like that and Harrow just wants to lean three inches to the right and touch her shoulders to her Cavalier’s, to find comfort in the contact. “I’d tell her that I miss her stupid fucking hair. And her stupider arms. And her even stupider hair, and her even-,” with every word, Harrow’s voice wavers and wavers, and she cracks, letting out a sob. “And her even dumber smirk. And I miss her shitty face paint, and-,” There are tears running down her cheeks now, smearing immaculate face paint, painting ugly lines down her cheeks, and when she gasps in for air, it’s a pathetic, wet sound.

Gideon’s smile is soft, understanding, and so, so Griddle.

“I miss you, Griddle.” Harrow gets out between sobs, “I miss you so much.”

Gideon drifts lower as if sitting down beside Harrow, and Harrow can’t look away. She’s crying now, fat tears rolling down her cheeks, dripping onto her clothes. Stupid Griddle. Stupid, stupid Griddle. She doesn’t want to look away, doesn’t want Gideon to disappear from her sight for even one moment, so she cries with open eyes, watches tears slide down her face and disappear along with the paint under it.

“I miss you too, Harrowhark.”

No gloom mistress, no darkness incarnate. Just Harrowhark.

Harrow chokes down a sob and nods. She wants Gideon back. Warm hands, warm words, safety.

“Hey, I saw your pushups yesterday. They’re… they’re getting better.” Griddle tries, and Harrow barks a laugh, wet and sad.

“They’re pathetic.”

Gideon sighs, wistful. “Mine used to look like that too. Too bad I didn’t get to show you my abs, I guess we’ll just have to get you shredded enough to look the same, and then you can appreciate them that way.”

Harrow can’t keep back the incredulous laugh. “You’re so _dumb_.”

“Like rocks.” Gideon beams.

Harrow wipes away at her tears, not caring when the back of her hands come away smeared with paint and her face looks like a mess in the mirror. “Will I see you again?”

“As long as you don’t suffocate me with your big brain?” Gideon teases, “I hope so, Harrow.”

Harrow nods and closes her eyes, and when she reopens them, Gideon is still there.

“Hey Griddle?”

“Mmhm?”

“Can you…” She peters off into silence.

Gideon laughs. “I’m in your head, but I can’t read your mind.”

“Can you kiss my forehead again?” She mumbles, hugging her legs even tighter against her chest.

A flash of surprise crosses Gideon’s face that even the shades can’t hide, and she smiles, soft. “Sure, yeah. Do you trust me? Close your eyes, Harrow.”

Harrow breathes in deep, exhales, and closes her eyes. Trusts.

Maybe it’s just her imagination. She wouldn’t be surprised if it was. But she can feel warmth bloom between her eyebrows and she smiles.

“It's Harrowhark Nonagesimus sleepy time," Gideon's low, warm voice drawls, "Goodnight, Harrow.”

Harrow doesn’t open her eyes. “Will I see you tomorrow night?”

“Tomorrow. And the night after that. And the night after that. Until we see each other face to face again.”

When Harrow opens her eyes again, she’s alone.

**Author's Note:**

> I read Gideon the Ninth three days ago and I'm still not over it. It feels like going through the stages of mourning and this bitch ain't even at anger yet! It's the enemies to what could have been lovers trope that just, ah my heart! I've already made a necromantic paladin for a D&D game inspired by this, and I'm going through ao3 fics faster than Griddle goes through leeks. Bless this series, IS IT AUGUST YET.
> 
> Title from "Too Good to Say Goodbye" Bruno Mars
> 
> Tumblr: [frumpkinspocketdimension](https://frumpkinspocketdimension.tumblr.com)  
> Discord: SweetBabyRae#0967


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